


Spicy Cinnamon Chocolate Cookies

by waferkya



Series: The Cake is a Lie [2]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ricky is sad and Juan Carlos tries to help. It doesn't rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spicy Cinnamon Chocolate Cookies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrBalkanophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBalkanophile/gifts).



> The events described in this fic take place before the main storyline of [Red Velvet Vanilla Hood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/728608), but after the flashback that's in there. (This is what happens when you write without a plan I guess. I am a gardener, not an architect.)

 

 

The kid— _Ricky_ , Juan Carlos thinks, even though he never gave his brain permission to store away that name—has shown up regularly in the three days since he made his very first appearance, every morning like clockwork at eight forty-five, when most of the white collars and university students have come and gone already and he can sit at his table for a good half hour before classes, nursing his vanilla latte, which he tested out—and loved—that first afternoon, after draining the weird-but-delicious hazelnut-and-whatnot coffee blend that Marc had made him.

He’s dropped by at random hours after lunch too, but Juan Carlos doesn’t cover those shifts, so he only knows about Ricky’s more than regular visits because every evening Marc has greeted him with a big grin and said, “Your son says hi.”

Which got a bit awkward pretty soon, because it took Ricky an astonishingly short time to decide that he wants to get into Juan Carlos’ pants.

“I’m gonna be straight-forward about this,” he says, the morning of the day right after that first rainy afternoon he’d spent raiding the cinnamon rolls tray and making noises that got half the customers in the shop blushing tragically. “Because I’m awesome like that. I like you, so, is there any chance you might have sex with me some time in the future?”

There’s a grand total of six other customers scattered around the shop, and none of them is paying attention to him, although the pretty redhead at the corner table ducks her head very sharply and her shoulders shake a little. Victor sneaked out for a break five minutes ago—right after the dark-haired bloke with the thick menorquí accent walked out with a café mocha and a smug smirk—and Juan Carlos is completely alone behind the counter, so there’s no chance the kid—Ricky—might’ve been talking to someone else.

Juan Carlos blinks and all his thoughts feel quite frozen.

“Do I know you?” he manages to mumble eventually, with great dignity and arching his eyebrows. Ricky laughs.

“The vanilla latte enthusiast from yesterday,” he says, then smirks. “But that’s not really relevant, you know, you don’t need to know my name to answer my question.”

Juan Carlos snorts. “Right. Your order?”

Ricky’s smile apparently can and will grow indefinitely. “A vanilla latte, heavy on the vanilla, and a cinnamon roll, please. And also an honest answer? I’ll back off if you say no, you know, I promise.”

Juan Carlos fixes his order without any rush; he always finds a great deal of comfort in the familiar motions of coffee-making, much like a basketball player going through his routine to calm his nerves before a match-winning free throw.

When he turns around to serve Ricky and give him his bill, Juan Carlos even manages to put together a tight-lipped tiny smile that’s almost sincere.

“That will be 5.75,” he says. “As for your question, you should come back when you’re not a teenager anymore.”

Ricky is rummaging through his wallet, which looks stuffed with receipts rather than actual money, and freezes mid-motion, looking up at Juan Carlos from under the thick curtain of his bangs.

He doesn’t say anything, but hands out a ten euros bill—and a light pink card—his driver’s license.

Juan Carlos is so surprised he doesn’t even try to keep his eyebrows to arch as up as they will go. When he reads Ricky’s date and year of birth, he clenches his jaw to keep his mouth from hanging open.

The kid is twenty-one. He’ll be twenty-two tomorrow.

 

It’s day six and Juan Carlos is absolutely aware of the fact that he doesn’t know Ricky, not really, because you can’t know a person who’s never even seen your _feet_ , seeing how there’s always a big counter in-between the two of you, but still—the kid looks sad, Juan Carlos thinks. He’s been twenty-two for approximately fifty-six hours, and he looks sad. That is a notion that’s wrong in and for itself, but it gets even worse when it’s Ricky this is about— _Ricky_ , whom Juan Carlos totally, completely doesn’t know, but seeing him sad is—it’s—it’s weird.

His smile is always sunny and warm and now it’s a toothy thing that doesn’t reach his eyes and only makes him look tired; he’s not obnoxiously happy, he doesn’t tap his fingers against the counter in rhythm with whatever song he was listening to before he got into the shop, he doesn’t even blink when it’s Victor that takes his order instead of Juan Carlos, who’s supposed to be working on some fresh pitas for the lunch rush and came out of the back to grab a display tray and instead is just standing there, shell-shocked by the sorry show of Ricky’s low spirits.

Juan Carlos chews on his bottom lip and considers the possibility of just going back to work, leaving the kid to whatever remnants of teenage angst is biting at his calves right now.

Ricky takes his papercup and his plate, turns around, realizes his usual table is already taken. His shoulders slouch down a bit more and he shuffles to take another seat, a tiny table stuck in a corner that must feel like solitary confinement—a rather comfortable confinement, with the puffy low couch stuffed with pillows and everything, but still, it’s confinement.

He looks so fucking miserable that Juan Carlos sighs and, before he knows it, he’s slipping out from behind the counter, and into the chair across from Ricky. (Victor is smirking blatantly, and the only reason why he gets to survive is because he’s the best barista Juan Carlos has ever hired, and he’s also a friend.)

Ricky looks up, rather startled, but he flashes Juan Carlos a grin that _still_ doesn’t sit entirely right on his face, and sits up a little.

“Hey, Juanki. Don’t worry, I still like your coffee better than Vic’s.”

The thing about Juan Carlos is, he’s kinda terrible when he has to be serious. He’s one for idiotic puns and a questionable sense of humour, that’s what he does, he’s blithely inappropriate—and when he can’t do that, he gets generic, the king of all fortune cookie paper strips. He gets boring as fuck. He gets stammery and he feels like the world’s biggest dumbass and you can’t ask him to comfort people by _talking_ , he can’t do that, he’s no good at that—he’s good at doing things. He’s good with his hands, he’ll make you all the comfort food you can possibly imagine, he’ll stand close and grab your arm and look at you to try and communicate his support telepathically but he couldn’t make an inspirational speech to save his life.

He doesn’t lead with words but actions—so he just, sort of leans in, cups Ricky’s face and kisses him. It makes sense. Doesn’t it?

Ricky is very still for maybe half a second; then he’s pushing back, one hand curling around the back of Juan Carlos’ neck, the other grabbing at the front of his shirt, his apron, and fuck Juan Carlos really hopes the kid didn’t spill his coffee because that would be painful—but no, there’s no scalding hot liquid hitting any part of his body so Juan Carlos relaxes a tiny bit, only Ricky has opened his mouth now and is sucking on his bottom lip and what can Juan Carlos do at this point, except let him in—and let himself in at the same time, licking into Ricky’s mouth that tastes like vanilla and vanilla and _vanilla_ and fuck, the kid can kiss.

Juan Carlos pulls back a little and he knows he’s blushing; his cheeks turn a little hotter the moment he realizes he’s been leaning over the table with the entire upper half of his body. Ricky smiles, his eyes finally, finally warm, and his hands shift to rest on the sides of Juan Carlos’ neck.

“You okay?” he asks, in a tiny, amused whisper, and then he presses another quick peck to Juan Carlos’ lips.

“My shift ends in two hours,” Juan Carlos mumbles, and the weird thing is, he doesn’t even regret saying this. He regrets it even less when Ricky’s smile grows some more.

“I just remembered I don’t have classes today,” he says, all brightness and mischief. Juan Carlos tries very hard not to roll his eyes. He fails.

He straightens up, runs a hand down the front of his apron to try and smooth it out again. Ricky licks his lips and Juan Carlos thinks of vanilla.

“I have to get back to work,” he growls, half as a warning to the kid but mostly, as a reminder to himself. Ricky laughs and throws his hands up in a sign of surrender.

As Juan Carlos walks up to the counter he calls out, “At least do I get free refills?”

Juan Carlos gives him the finger.

 

Ricky is loud and a little reckless, pushing himself down on Juan Carlos when he’s barely stretched out enough—it hurts, of course it does, but he takes that with a delighted sigh, licking his lips and rocking further down, his eyes pressed closed until the black fan of his long, curvy eyelashes is a thick straight line.

He is warm to the touch and soft and muscled, but with the slightest hints of sharp bones poking up from inside his skin here and there—his elbows, his knees, his shoulder blades, Juan Carlos has learned them all and wants to trace every line with his mouth, suck a mark on every one of Ricky’s vertebrae and see if maybe there’s any other part of his body that tastes like vanilla.

He grabs him by the hips instead, and keeps Ricky still as he thrusts up and deeper than before; Ricky gasps and ducks his head and laughs, then he leans in and down to try and kiss him, but only manages to bump their noses together and let Juan Carlos slip a bit out of him.

“Whoa,” he sighs on Juan Carlos’ lips, hands propped heavy on his chest, but Juan Carlos doesn’t mind. He flicks his thumb over one of Ricky’s nipples and Ricky shivers, moves again. “ _Juanki_.”

“Don’t call me that,” he mumbles, and Ricky straightens back up, sinks down, moans and his lips are swollen and pink and wet, his shoulders are dimpled and crowned in bite marks, his chest is flushed and tense and the skin paper-thin over his ribcage, and his cock stands from rippling black curls, wet and pink and swollen—Juan Carlos reaches out to touch him and Ricky shudders, his head dropping again, too heavy to keep up, and he smiles.

He says, “Juanki,” and fucks himself hard on Juan Carlos’ cock, batting his hand away when he tries to touch him. “No, I want—I—”

In the bright, cold light of the October morning where he took home a kid who likes vanilla lattes and cinnamon rolls a little too much, Juan Carlos stares; a drop of sweat rolls down the side of Ricky’s neck, heading for the dip between his collarbones, and a sudden wave of heat rushes up Juan Carlos’ already feverish body.

He flips them on the bed, pushing Ricky into the mattress—the kid yelps and the yelp turns into a happy sigh and he’s wrapping his legs around Juan Carlos’ waist already for better leverage. Juan Carlos drops his head and licks up the curve of Ricky’s neck, barely realizing he’s started to thrust against and into him faster, all he knows is that Ricky is pliant and amazing and too fucking _noisy_ under him and he never wants it to stop.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, tracing the indents of his bite marks still visible on Ricky’s shoulder. He didn’t break the skin but apparently, he bit harder than he’d meant to.

Ricky turns around a little, his nose bumping into Juan Carlos’.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I liked that, you know.”

Juan Carlos rolls his eyes; his fingers shift up the thick tendon of Ricky’s neck, drawing a shiver from him. “Still. It looks bad, and—I’m not a savage. I don’t think I am.”

“I’m not gonna be shirtless in public any soon, Juanki, relax,” Ricky says, not unkindly, and definitely amused. Juan Carlos tries not to picture him showing up shirtless to his shop. He doesn’t try very hard. “Besides, no one thinks you’re a savage. You’re a baker.”

Juan Carlos snorts—he’s warm and sated and Ricky is pressed up against him, and he’s starting to doze off.

His fingers have found their way to Ricky’s mouth and they kinda rest there on his lips. Ricky presses a kiss against them.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me?” he asks, after a while. Juan Carlos’ eyes are closed and he doesn’t open them.

“Hn?”

Ricky shifts closer. He opens his mouth and wraps his tongue around Juan Carlos’ index finger, tugging it in and sucking on it, rolling his bottom lip against it. Juan Carlos is already half asleep though, and besides he’s entirely, thoroughly spent, so he barely notices.

Ricky says, “Why I was sad this morning. Don’t you wanna know?”

“I know why you’re not sad anymore,” Juan Carlos grunts. Ricky stifles a giggle against his neck, which feels rather good, so Juan Carlos waits a beat—or he didn’t wait, just fell asleep and then tumbled back into stupor, he’s just so, so tired—and adds, his words slurred and mashed together, “If you really wanna tell me, tell me when I wake up.”

He falls asleep to Ricky’s grin pressed just under his jaw.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I am sad because no Batman jokes nor Marc this time :C But I am happy because porn? Nah mostly I'm happy for the Sada/Llull reference, smile if you caught that, you're good.


End file.
